


i've been getting used to waking up here

by childhoodinfamy



Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Established Relationship, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-09
Updated: 2016-06-09
Packaged: 2018-07-14 00:28:52
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 658
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7144787
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/childhoodinfamy/pseuds/childhoodinfamy
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The quiet mornings are Bucky’s favorite, when they can get them.</p>
            </blockquote>





	i've been getting used to waking up here

**Author's Note:**

> Alex asked for prompts and I said "gay" and she drew [this amazing thing.](http://alexschlitz.tumblr.com/post/145667497061/finished-n-colored-a-sketch-from-last-night)
> 
> So I had to write the Neck Smooch.
> 
> (The title is from Vance Joy's "Fire and the Flood" because I'm an uncreative hecker.)

The quiet mornings are Bucky’s favorite, when they can get them. It’s not often, of course, between each of their early-morning unintentional wake-ups, or the way Steve’s phone vibrates off the bedside table far more often than either of them would like.

But there are the rare days, nestled somewhere between the superheroing and the restlessness, when they find themselves waking up past the sun, lazy and draped across each other. These days, Steve wakes up first, and Bucky finds him half-smiling in the morning light when Bucky’s eyes finally crack open. He places a kiss on Bucky’s lips, every time, breath stale and mouth curved against Bucky’s.

They lay in bed like this for hours. These minutes feel stolen, and are all the sweeter for it. Each time Steve traces the line of Bucky’s jaw with his fingertips, or Bucky drifts momentarily back to sleep with his head pillowed on Steve’s chest. They stretch languidly across these mornings until something requires their attention--a pot of coffee, usually.

When Bucky emerges from the bathroom just before noon, his hair falling from its elastic tie and Steve’s sweatshirt warm on his shoulders, the scent of coffee filters down the hall. It smells stronger than Steve usually makes it. Closer to Bucky’s own recipe.

He rounds the corner to their kitchen. Steve is standing at the counter, leaning on his hands. One mug is set on the plate of their coffee maker, catching the first drips of the batch, while another mug and the actual coffee pot lay in wait on the counter next to Steve’s hands. Steve’s shoulders are low, relaxed, in a way they almost never are. He’s facing away from Bucky, but he can imagine the easy expression well enough.

It takes only a few steps to get across the kitchen, though Bucky takes them with a lilt, letting a bit of laziness to slip its way in.

When he reaches Steve, he reaches his arm around Steve until he can settle it on Steve’s chest. His fingers spread, and he rests his forehead against the back of Steve’s neck.

Steve is warm. It hasn’t always been the case, and even now, his fingers are shockingly cold most of the time. But now, his skin is warm through the fabric of his shirt and against Bucky’s forehead. His breath is even underneath Bucky’s palm, and he brings a hand up, laces his fingers halfway through Bucky’s own.

The smile that begins to stretch across Bucky’s face is not entirely voluntary, but he certainly doesn’t try to stop it. Instead. He tilts his head until his lips make contact with Steve’s neck, dry and lingering.

“Hey,” he says, his lips moving lightly across skin as Steve moves the first cup off of the coffee maker and replaces it with the second.

“Hey,” Steve says.

“Thanks for making coffee.”

“Mhmm.” He squeezes Bucky’s hand once before turning away from the counter. Bucky lets his hand fall, first to the counter and then to Steve’s side, thumb resting in the curve of Steve’s ribs.

Steve’s face is inches away, and instead of leaning forward, he looks Bucky in the eye when he takes a too-big drink. He tries unsuccessfully to cover up the wince that follows; his huff of surprise is coffee-scented and unsweetened. When he’s recovered, he says, “Your cup’ll be ready in a few minutes.” He makes quick work of the inches separating them, and, coffee mug pressed between their chests, kisses Bucky with the resolute morning slowness, despite the fact that it’s nearing afternoon now. “I’m going to take a shower,” he says.

Bucky turns to watch him go, a smile still playing at the corners of his lips. When his mug is near-full, he moves the coffee pot into its rightful spot, throws a splash of cream into his cup, and follows Steve down the hall. The water is still going when Bucky joins him.


End file.
